


The Magic Number

by FrancesHouseman



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Curses, Fuck Or Die, M/M, Major Spoilers - don't read unless you've already seen it!, Sibling Incest, Spoilers, help I'm in love with Dumbledore, spoilers for Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-06
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 03:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16884669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrancesHouseman/pseuds/FrancesHouseman
Summary: “What’s going on?” Theseus demands.“Apples!” Dumbledore’s muffled voice seems to say, through the handkerchief, “Fermenting apples, should have known.”





	The Magic Number

 

Dumbledore holds up the blood pact to catch the light streaming down through the classroom windows. The tiny drops of blood within glow ruby-red. “Breaking the phial is the easy part,” Dumbledore says. “It’s separating out his blood from mine that’s going to involve some complex spellwork.”

“To put it mildly,” Theseus agrees. _His blood from mine;_ the intimacy is striking and it stirs Theseus in ways that it shouldn’t. Dumbledore has always called to something inside Theseus, in the deepest part of him where he is most secretly himself. When Dumbledore has caught him looking there have been glances and shared smiles between them that might be flirtations but Theseus can’t quite trust himself to be sure of it. The tantalising promises those sly smiles seem to make, of maybe one day getting to see Dumbledore unleashed, of maybe even doing some of the unleashing himself, has kept Theseus warm at night on more than one occasion.

Of course, there has also been a lot of talk recently about competition between the world’s most powerful two wizards, who just happen to have been lovers, which alone is sufficient to feed Theseus’s imagination and make his collar feel a little tight if he’s honest.

Dumbledore turns the phial in the light, seeming to admire it more than anything.

“Should I fetch a petri dish and hammer?” Theseus prompts. The Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom had not yet been Dumbledore’s realm in Theseus’s Hogwarts days, a thing he will never stop being jealous of Newt over, but it seems unlikely the store cupboard has moved.

“It just seems too easy,” Dumbledore muses. “What do you think, Newt?”

“I think,” Newt says slowly, staring intently at a chair leg, “I think that it’s the only way of going about it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained?” he glances to Theseus for approval before looking back to Dumbledore.

Theseus doesn’t dwell on his younger brother’s peculiarities so much anymore. The staring-off thing Newt does when he’s thinking is just his way of concentrating while he turns his sometimes quite brilliant thoughts into words, as and when they occur to him. It doesn’t seem to bother Dumbledore either, which makes sense, Theseus supposes, since Newt probably knows Dumbledore better than he does. Or Dumbledore knows Newt better perhaps. He wonders whether anyone really knows Albus Dumbledore.  

Dumbledore nods. “I’ll fetch the things.” He walks to the cupboard rather than summoning the equipment and sets the phial atop the dish on his desk. He seems undecided between the tiny metal hammer and his wand at first but, after deliberation, picks up the hammer. “Will you cast a shield charm?” he says. “It’s likely to be booby trapped. We should take some minimal precautions at least.”

Theseus is quicker, casting a first-rate shield around both himself and Newt. It’s always been one of his best charms; ‘ _The pride of British defence_ ,’ Evermonde had once called him, in those heady days before the war. Newt shoots Theseus an annoyed look. Theseus smirks.

“Right.” Dumbledore says. He strikes the tiny glass sphere. It smashes unspectacularly, with a small tinkle. The drops of enchanted blood mingle and land half on a fractured pearlescent piece, coming to rest like any normal liquid.

Theseus is about to lower his shield when Dumbledore’s eyes go wide with alarm. He snatches up his wand and they watch helplessly as Dumbledore casts into the air around him, covering his nose and mouth with a handkerchief as he works.

“What’s going on?” Theseus demands.

“Apples!” Dumbledore’s muffled voice seems to say, through the handkerchief, “Fermenting apples, should have known.”

“Professor?” Newt tries.

“Keep that shield up for Merlin’s sake,” Dumbledore gasps, not sparing them a glance. “ _Siccato!_ ” he casts, and it’s strange to hear Dumbledore perform verbal magic. “ _Depulso! FINITE!_ ”

The power of his _Finite_ makes the classroom dust motes crackle. Theseus’s neck hair stands to attention and his shield wobbles as the world bends itself to Dumbledore’s will. Around the broken phial, a green mist becomes briefly visible before winking out of existence. 

This seems to be the desired outcome because Dumbledore slumps down into his chair but it doesn’t look much like victory. Dumbledore moans miserably, holding his head in both hands as he shakes it from side to side. Theseus shoots Newt an eyebrow but Newt just shrugs, none the wiser about what just happened.

The handkerchief mask dangles forlornly from Dumbledore’s fingers.

Eventually, he looks up. His cheeks are flushed angry-red and there are tear tracks streaking his face. It’s disquieting to say the least. Newt fidgets at Theseus’s side. 

“Drop the shield, Theseus,” Dumbledore says softly, and Theseus obliges.

 

****

 

“And it has to be a woman?” Theseus asks, faux innocently. He pays Newt’s snort of derision all the mind that it deserves, which is none, and keeps his attention trained on Dumbledore’s unbelievably blue eyes.

“The desire is indiscriminate,” Dumbledore says, directly to Theseus’s libido. Their eye contact holds and Theseus’s blood thrums, mutual appreciation laid out honestly between them for the first time.

Newt clears his throat.

Dumbledore sighs and turns away. “Sadly, my imminent death can only be avoided via a successful coupling, which rather implies a member of the fairer sex,” he says, and resumes pacing.

“Apples and pheromones,” Newt mumbles, scratching an eyebrow. “I mean why apples? If it was just pheromones we could work with the erumpant remedy, I even have some on me. Combine it with a phoenix spark or something to fool the fertilization aspect. But I don’t know a damn thing about apples. Really Dumbledore, why apples?”

“It’s rooted in an ancient Austrian fertility rite,” Dumbledore says. “Gellart found it amusing. We both did. We used to talk about what we’d do if we were ever hit with der Apfel der Liebe or, as it’s more commonly known, Leopold’s Labour, since legend has it that emperor Leopold II was subject to the ritual on more than one occasion.”

“I mean, there is the obvious thing to do,” Newt says. Dumbledore goes still and Theseus winces at the indelicacy of it but he can’t disagree.

Dumbledore starts to shake his head but Newt is right, and this is no time for tact or sensibilities. “Minerva is very fond of you,” Theseus says. “There are retrospective contraceptive spells that we must all know, and it’s life or death. Can you imagine what she would do to us if we let you die without asking her for help?”

For Theseus, a scant few months ago it would have been nothing of a hardship. He can still imagine Leta and the pleasures to be had in letting the ritual drive them. They had wanted children and talked of it often on those long tender afternoons spent entwined on Theseus’s rickety metal-framed bunk. The luxuries he had promised her, of fine linens and a marriage bed for two, are now things that will never come to pass.

For Dumbledore though, it seems to be the end of the world. He holds himself rigid, hands clasped and jaw locked, facing the wall, possibly trying to find it in himself to ask for Minerva’s help. “He knew,” he says, finally, turning to plead with them. There’s a new, wild edge written in the pink of his cheeks and the swell of his lips. “It’s not that it has to be a woman, it’s… He knew it would be the worst thing he could do to me.”

The shock of noticing that Dumbledore’s trousers are tented dries up any intelligent response Theseus might have made. He experiences a shiver of sympathy that merges with stirrings of his own: Dumbledore’s composure is slipping.

“In that case,” Newt says, “We had better make a start with everything we can find out about apples.”

 

****

 

They consider the myth of Heracles’ forbidden fruit, the Serpent in the Garden, Eris’s golden apple and the gifts of Aphrodite. Finally, they have to agree that any mythological roots must either be unknown to them or non-existent. Dumbledore thinks that the apples are merely carriers, and the longer they talk, the more he insists that the theory isn’t important.

It turns out Newt has a stash of sex pheromones for different species and each gender. There are no human pheromones, or at least none that Newt is admitting to, but his stash includes some very close cousins: There are veela pheromones in their purest form, which they decide against rather than risk further intoxication; female werewolf pheromones, and lilitu and harpy phermonomes, which they also discount. Eventually they settle on anggitay pheromones, creatures similar to centaurs, except for their gender and their horn.

“Oof,” Dumbledore winces, withdrawing quickly from the bottle of pheromones.

“Merlin that reeks,” Theseus has to agree, when Newt lets him have a sniff.

Dumbledore laughs and doesn’t seem able to stop. He puts his face in his hands and shakes.

Theseus shares a concerned look with Newt. He lays a firm hand on Dumbledore’s shoulder, trying to bolster the man. “Dumbledore? Albus? Newt’s going to see you right. He’s a bona fide smarty pants when it comes to pheromones, aren’t you Newt.”

After a few long shuddery breaths Dumbledore straightens himself, briefly squeezing Theseus’s hand with his own. “I’m sorry, it’s the curse. I’m trying to keep it under control but… would one of you mind locking the door?”

“Yes, sorry, of course.” Newt gets the door, locking it with both magic and iron, which is just as well because parts of Theseus’s anatomy are setting themselves against standing and walking for the moment. He wishes fervently for robes.

“Assuming this curse of Grindelwald’s can be fooled with pheromones and a one-sided physical performance,” Newt says, “We still have the problem of fooling the curse into thinking that conception has successfully taken place. We need a life spark.”

“I only wish I could produce a phoenix for you,” Dumbledore says.

“You can’t?” Newt seems surprised.

“Sadly, no.” Something unsaid passes between them that Theseus doesn’t understand.

“There are ways of bringing a person back, if they’ve died moments before,” Theseus recalls, mostly to break the air of melancholy that seems to have sprung from nowhere.

Newt gives him a stern look of disapproval.

“Not necromancy you twerp. More like healing magic, to resuscitate or reinvigorate. We’re taught some of the methods to use on the job, in case of mishap.”

“Mishap.” Newt repeats, unimpressed.

“Look, they’re pretty effective at restarting healthy hearts. The longer you leave it, the less effective it becomes. Anytime from the moment of death to ten minutes or so later. It’s just an idea.”

“You know, I think you might be on to something,” Dumbledore nods, clearly caught by the idea. “It’s the spark we need, and we’ve already established that rebirth would suffice. Why not resuscitation?”

“Because we would have to kill you.” Newt enunciates slowly. “Forgive me Dumbledore but murdering you wasn’t on my to-do list this afternoon.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Theseus, but aren’t there supposed to be excellent odds for these spells, for healthy subjects?” Dumbledore says. “I seem to remember a scandal some years ago surrounding a group of healers who experimented on each other, in something of a foolhardy attempt to solve the mysteries of the afterlife?”

“And what if your heart isn’t as healthy as we’d like to suppose?” Newt interjects, still deeply sceptical. “What if you fall into the, I don’t know, five percent? Ten percent of experimental subjects who can’t be resuscitated?”

Dumbledore looks to Theseus. It was, after all, Theseus’s suggestion. “Theseus?” It’s a plea.

“I’ll do it,” Theseus promises, acutely aware of the weight of the duty. “I know the incantation and I know I can bring you back.” It’s battlefield bravado. He knows it and Dumbledore knows it, but it might go some way to comforting Newt. Theseus will do his best. It’s possible that the loss of Leta has made him more reckless than he realised.

 

****

 

The house elves, perhaps being particularly fond of Dumbledore, bring fine specimens of every variety of apple. Theseus chops them while Newt laces the slices with anggitay pheromones.

“How are you holding up?” Theseus says, noting the cessation of table-tapping and leg-jiggling as Dumbledore takes to pacing his classroom once more.

“I’ve been better.” Dumbledore’s smile is tight but well intended. He can’t hide the hunger in his eyes though. If Dumbledore were a different kind of a man, something more like his arch nemesis, he could be terrifying.

“And we’re done.” Newt says, tossing the last apple slices into the bowl. “Do you… I can do this if you wanted to-”

“Go?” Theseus barks a laugh. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him. “I’m not going anywhere. Older sibling here. And war hero, remember?”

“Massive Dumbledore crush more like,” Newt mutters darkly, so that only the two of them can hear. But he looks up at Theseus through his curly fringe and his eyes are crinkled in gratitude. He’s all freckles and eyelashes, Theseus’s little brother. Completely wasted on the kneazles and nifflers. “If you’re staying you’ll have to bind Dumbledore,” Newt says. “You’re better at these things. Please make it as strong as you can.”

“Is that really necessary?” The odds of Theseus escaping the afternoon’s activities with his sanity intact are not improving.

Newt pauses, where he’s climbing down onto the suitcase ladder. “I don’t actually know,” he says, looking at Dumbledore speculatively, like it’s an academic point of interest.

Dumbledore, already pink, colours a shade darker. He shakes his head, “I don’t know either. It should make the process... easier though, I believe.”

 _Or safer_ , Theseus thinks, but keeps it to himself.

“Perhaps over here at this column?” Dumbledore suggests, leaning back against a wide stone column in the centre of the room. He keeps his arms by his sides and doesn’t otherwise affect a pose but still somehow manages to looks like a written invitation to debauchery. Theseus carefully trains his eyes on Dumbledore’s face but this doesn’t help much, since Dumbledore’s face is the part where the invitation is written most clearly.

“Do you have rope?” Theseus asks, and has to clear his throat when his voice goes grainy.

“Use _incarcerous_ , Theseus, it’s fine. And probably better not to touch me anyway, in case it interferes with Newt’s efforts.”

“Right. _Incarcerous_ ,” Theseus casts, and watches as thick ropes lash themselves around Dumbledore and the column, pinning him in place. He looks like very much like one of Theseus’s wet dreams and, judging by the mildly amused look he’s receiving, Dumbledore knows it.

The bindings seem to help Dumbledore relax. He stops the flexing thing he’s been doing with his right hand, possibly because the temptation to touch himself has been taken away. Instead, he squirms slightly, a lazy indulgent squirm, so small that he might not even be aware he’s doing it. It makes Theseus want to touch very badly and he flexes his own hands, wishing that he had thought to bind Dumbledore’s thighs too, to hold his damned hips in place.

They lay a tight circle of apple slices around Dumbledore and the column, and Newt applies a few to his bare skin, on his neck and forearms. He charms the slices to stick with _adhærentia_ , taking care not to touch.

Newt shuffles around with equipment and Theseus doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.

“Theseus,” Dumbledore says gently, “If I’m going to come on the apples then you’ll have to open my trousers.”

This isn’t strictly true. Even allowing for some incapacity due to the effects of the curse, Dumbledore is completely capable of wandlessly magicking his own cock free. It’s a skill that most wizarding teenagers mysteriously acquire, even if it’s the only bit of wandless magic they ever achieve. Performing it on Dumbledore is surreal. Theseus deals with the fastenings easily and coaxes the trousers and underwear down to somewhere around mid-thigh. Dumbledore had said ‘open my trousers’ after all, not ‘remove my clothes’. His cock is hard and hard to look at, but his face is soft, knowing, and even harder to look at. Theseus turns to Newt. “We can’t touch him?”

“No, best not. I’ve been thinking about this,” Newt says, speaking to the space between Dumbledore and Theseus. “Magic applied directly is going to be risky but if we use magic indirectly to make something else move for example…”

“Alright, so a cloth or something,” Theseus scans the classroom, “Something flexible.”

“Actually, I was thinking of something more like a graphorn probe.”

Dumbledore makes a small strangled noise. “Unless you’re breeding a herd of really small miniature graphorn, Newt, I don’t think it’s going to fit,” he says wryly. Theseus doesn’t understand.

“A metal object inserted into the anus,” Newt explains, for his brother’s benefit. “We use magic to create electric shocks, stimulating the prostate and forcing climax. It doesn’t take long with graphorns.”

“But he’s a person!”

“Similar physiology.” Newt says defensively. “Muggles do a similar thing to artificially inseminate cows I believe.”

“I don’t suppose my gloves would be any use?” Dumbledore suggests. The top drawer of his desk slides open (proving Theseus’s earlier suspicions) and two black leather gloves pop out and wave at them.

Theseus huffs a laugh. Trust Dumbledore to come up with such a simple alternative.

“No, that’s not going to be impersonal enough,” Newt says, to Theseus’s horror. “The gloves are enchanted objects you see, imbibed with magic of their own. An extension of yourself.”

“But-”

“He’s right, Theseus. My gloves are almost familiars by now. _Familiar_ familiars.”

Theseus gapes but the implication is either lost on Newt or he’s choosing to ignore it. Dumbledore gives Theseus a wicked smile and a thousand questions spawn in Theseus’s mind. Had Dumbledore made the gloves because he was lonely? Because he missed Grindelwald?

“Shall I fetch the probes?”

“Merlin Newt, can’t you call them something else?” Theseus says. Dumbledore’s head falls back against the column, eyes closing as he accepts his fate.

“I’m sorry,” Newt snipes. “Shall I go and fetch the electrical ridged steel phallus that-”

“Yes. Please?” Dumbledore squirms and a thin drip falls like spider silk from the tip of his cock to the waiting apple slices at his feet. When Newt has gone he opens his eyes. “Sorry about all this,” he says to Theseus.

“That’s not… I mean… When did you make the gloves?” Theseus asks, in a cracked voice. “Have you,” he clears his throat, “That is, have you ever set them on someone else?” Because Merlin, Theseus wants that. He wants that more than the bristle of Dumbledore’s beard against his own skin; more even than he wants to bury himself in the smell of the other man, the smell of shirt and suit and Dumbledore’s hot living body beneath.

Dumbledore contemplates him. It’s a physical struggle for Theseus to stay still, to not reach out and make contact. “Would you like that Theseus?” Dumbledore asks quietly. “The answer to your question is, I think, _not yet_.”

“This one should be the right size,” Newt says, returning with his tray of torture implements. “Should I just-?”

Dumbledore nods and spreads his thighs as wide as they’ll go, which isn’t very wide because of his trousers. Theseus obligingly draws them further down. Why hadn’t they thought to remove his boots first?

Newt uses his wand to lift the metal dildo, roll it in lubricant and levitate it towards Dumbledore where it hovers, nudging itself gently into place behind his balls.

Theseus presses his knuckles to his lips. He should look away but he can’t. Dumbledore’s eyes are closed again anyway. He looks like he’s willing himself to relax.

More and more of the metal disappears, until only the very base is visible.

“ _Scintilla_ ,” Newt casts, and Dumbledore’s whole body jerks and his eyes fly open. “ _Scintilla_ ,” Newt casts again, and Dumbledore cries out as his cock leaps, apparently unprepared. “ _Scintilla._ ”

Dumbledore trains his eyes on Theseus between shocks, his mouth hanging a little open, and Theseus couldn’t look away now if the room was taken by fiendfyre. The pause between shocks seems too long, and Theseus agonises in anticipation, until the next one has Dumbledore straining in his ropes, eyes rolling and hips thrusting uselessly forwards.

“ _Scintilla_ ,” Newt casts again and again, relentless, and Dumbledore’s cock begins to leak in earnest.

 _Won’t be long now_ , Theseus thinks, registering the smell of apples that has returned.

“ _Scintilla_.”

Dumbledore makes a loud sound, not a cry or a moan but something angry and prolonged somewhere in-between.

“ _Scintilla_.”

Dumbledore comes, groaning as he streaks the carefully spaced apple slices, searing an image into Theseus’s brain that will be replaying every time he practices self-gratification for the foreseeable future.

The convulsions ebb away and there’s an almighty crash as all the furniture in the room falls a few inches back to the ground. Theseus hadn’t even noticed that it was levitating. 

 

****

 

Newt is in his suitcase, ostensibly tidying his things away, and Theseus… well, Theseus is standing guard, he supposes. Dumbledore hasn’t opened his eyes yet, and it takes Theseus longer than it should to realise that the man is crying. The tears rolling down his cheeks give it away but now that Theseus looks more closely, Dumbledore’s chest and shoulders are heaving and shuddering beneath his woollen waistcoat.

“Albus,” Theseus says tentatively.

Dumbledore shakes his head. “I’m alright,” he says shakily. “It was just intense. Do you understand?”

“Yes. Yes of course,” Theseus says, although he knows it for another half-truth. Dumbledore is paying Grindelwald’s price for trying to destroy their pact. There may be three of them in this classroom, if you count Newt in his suitcase, but Gellart Grindelwald is also there, his presence all-pervading in the pungency of fermenting apples. Theseus knows what it is to lose a bond of love. He can only imagine what it’s like to destroy it intentionally.

“Don’t touch him!” Newt shouts from behind, and Theseus takes a surprised step back.

“I wasn’t going to,” he mumbles, feeling bizarrely close to tears himself.

“It’s just a lot of work to go and ruin it all at the eleventh hour, don’t you think?” Newt says, softly, an apology. “Come here.” He pulls Theseus away by the arm and, once he gets a good look at his face, into a full hug.

The hugging thing is becoming something of a determined new habit with Newt. It’s especially awkward this time though because Theseus is still half hard. He tries to twist away but Newt won’t let him.

“It’s normal,” Newt says, to Theseus’s dismay, breath tickling Theseus’s ear, “Don’t make it into something perverse.”

Theseus can feel that Newt is hard too, brushing up against Theseus’s hip, not firmly enough to be called a _press_ , but not unintentional either. To Theseus’s horror, his own cock is rapidly re-filling at the contact.

“We have to wait anyway,” Newt says, cupping Theseus briefly before going for his trouser fastenings. “Fertilization wouldn’t happen straight away. You might as well let me-” He takes Theseus’s cock from his underwear before Theseus can collect his scattered thoughts and strokes him in a way that can only be practiced. It feels so good. Theseus groans.

Dumbledore moans softly in his bondage.

“Merlin. Newt, I-”

Giving Theseus plenty of time to realise what’s happening, as if Theseus were one of his _creatures_ , Newt sucks his finger and slides it between Theseus’s legs, not pausing for so much as an _if you please_ before pressing it up into Theseus’s body and crooking it insistently.

Theseus makes a garbled sound, forehead falling to Newt’s shoulder. He looks down at his little brother’s pale bony fingers encircling his cock, thinks about Newt becoming practiced at this particular brand of intimacy between men, perhaps during the war, and blows his load, acutely aware of his audience.

Newt lets him rest where he is, gratitude and shame battling for precedence. It’s only when Theseus has himself together enough to refasten his clothing that he hears Newt casting _silencio_ at Dumbledore’s heart and realises that he has been masterfully distracted and deceived.

“No!” Theseus tackles his brother to the floor, snatching away his wand, but it’s already too late. “You bloodly idiot,” he snarls, “I was going to do that. Why couldn’t you just let me do that part?”

“I love you too,” Newt says dryly. “Now let me up. _You_ need to revive him.”

“Now?” They get to their feet. Theseus scowls. He doesn’t know whether he will be able to bring this up again later, considering how Newt has just distracted him, which was no doubt the plan.

“Soon.” Newts sniffs the air. It smells like they’re drowning in apples. “Yes, alright, I think that should be long enough.”

 _Resuscitare!_ Theseus casts. He puts all his power behind the spell and doesn’t let himself feel doubt or hesitate. Dumbledore heaves in a gasp, his head lifting, eyes unfocussed.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Newt says, as all the apples disappear, taking the smell with them. 

 

****

 

Dumbledore takes out his handkerchief, once he’s free and re-dressed. He dabs again at his eyes and Theseus feels the pieces of his already broken heart shatter a little more on Dumbledore’s behalf. He glimpses something else slipped into Dumbledore’s pocket beside the handkerchief and tries to catch Dumbledore’s eye, curious, but for once he’s unsuccessful.

“Thank you both,” Dumbledore says sincerely, his trademark confidence slipping back in place. “And sorry again to put you through all this, really.”

“I’m sorry for the way we had to go about it,” Newt says, latching his suitcase. “I realise it must have been difficult. I wonder… would you like to be obliviated?”

“No, that’s- Oh.” Dumbledore glances to Theseus, his eyes infuriatingly unreadable.

Theseus tries to imagine what Dumbledore sees: he’s still red-faced, he knows, and standing rigidly. Now is the time for Theseus to be a gentleman about all this. He should say something like _‘Not on my account’_ but the cat has his tongue.

“Perhaps, under the circumstances, if you think it’s best then I’ll allow it,” Dumbledore says. He softens the arrogance of the words with a rueful smile.

Newt does it quickly. Dumbledore seems surprised for a moment and Theseus steps in smoothly, reminding him that he was just going to figure out a way to destroy the blood pact, now that he had it open. Dumbledore frowns at the shattered phial on his desk.

Theseus guides Newt out of the classroom by the shoulder, glancing back from the doorway.

Dumbledore is watching them with an intensity like a firebrand. He’s already working it out, Theseus can tell, nostrils flaring, and the whole classroom must stink of sex.

He closes the door behind him and they make their escape.

 

****

 

The door closes behind the Scamander brothers and Dumbledore sinks into his desk chair, forlorn for a moment at the mammoth task of the broken blood pact before him.

He absently pats down his waistcoat and smiles as his hand comes to rest over the familiar shape of another small glass phial, this one containing the furtively collected memory-tears of the past few hours.

He summons his pensieve.

 


End file.
